Honeydukes: Flavors of All Kinds
by Ebaz
Summary: A series of eighteen drabbles/oneshots for owluvr's Honeydukes Competition. COMPLETE (and undergoing revision).
1. Acid Pops

Scars

He wakes up in a cold sweat, heart and mind racing with no stopping point in sight.

It's the third night of this in a row, and he's starting to regret falling asleep. No matter how much his mind refuses to think about it during the day, the nights are the same: that chilling, inhuman voice; that unmistakable beam of green; that unseeing, lifeless face, pale against the backdrop of tomb and newly-planted grass.

Surprisingly, it's not the next encounter that gets to him, not the reawakening of the most dangerous wizard of the century. He doesn't take it lightly, of course; he doesn't have a death wish, despite what some might say. Not for that situation, anyway.

But his ally – his friend – _Cedric_ – is dead. An innocent, promising, selfless person… gone without a trace. Somehow, Harry knows it's his fault.

How he wishes he could tell himself it's all just a dream.


	2. Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans

Flight

"Oh, _c'mon_, Hermione, just try it–"

"I like myself alive, thank you very much."

"Look at Harry! He does it all the time, and he's damn good at it, too–"

"Do you really think Harry is a good role model for not dying?"

"…Fair point."

Ron sighed and steadied Charlie's old Silver Arrow against the wall of the Burrow. "Fine. Have it your way. I guess you'll never find out how fun it is, then." He shrugged and walked inside.

She rolled her eyes, observing the ash-and-oak death trap skeptically. "As if I'd…" She trailed off. Maybe Ron was right… not that she'd ever admit it to him if he was, but still – there had to be a reason her friends were so enamored with the sport. Slowly, carefully, she edged towards the broomstick, starting slightly as it jumped into her outstretched hand. She mounted it as she had seen Harry do countless times before, and with a deep breath, she pushed off from the ground.

The broom rose straight into the air, and Hermione clung tightly to the handle. She willed herself to remember what she'd read about brooms so many years before and concentrated on controlling the broom. Although still somewhat tentative, she found that the broom obeyed her commands easily, and she made a shaky little circle around the yard. Gaining confidence, she pushed her speed, a grin rapidly forming on her face as she continued her circuit.

_Perhaps flying isn't so bad after all…_

:-:-:-:

Ron watched from his bedroom window as his best friend looped around the trees in his backyard, her hair loose and wild behind her in the wind. He smiled a smile of triumph; she had listened to him for once, and seemed to be enjoying it.

Oh, would he have fun never letting her forget that…


	3. Blood-Flavored Lollipops

Traitor

_Prongs. Prongs and Lily._

_Dead._

It couldn't be true. They were still alive and well in the Hollow, still proud parents, still patiently waiting for the end of the war.

_But it is_, a little voice in the back of my head told me – the same one that used to remind me that I was a pureblood, and should act like one.

_James was a pureblood, too,_ I told the voice, exiling it and any other morbid thoughts to the back of my mind.

I couldn't take magic right now. Without giving it much thought, I apparated into the first Muggle village I could think of, a tiny town in the far suburbs of London. It was quiet; the premature wintry weather seemed to have banished everyone to their homes. Now that I thought about it, that was probably a good thing – I was still wearing robes. Oh well. I wasn't going to Transfigure them now.

Further down the road was a plaza of sorts, a simple cobblestone square lined with tiny shops and boutiques. There were people here, milling about and talking to each other, no doubt about the mundane things that had happened recently in their lives. A few boys played ball in a nearby alley.

I wished so dearly that I could do something that simple and carefree right now, like Quidditch. But that wouldn't be the same without –

"Sirius!"

I turned around sharply. Who the hell around here would know my name?

Oh, no. Nonono. This was _not_ who I wanted to see right now.

He looked a lot older than the last time I'd seen him; his gait was confident, his face self-satisfied. _Bastard_. I bit back a snarl and reached for my wand, not caring who saw.

"_Peter_," I spat. His grin grew wider.

"Sirius! Haven't seen you in _ages_–" I jabbed my wand into the side of his neck. For a moment, I saw the Peter I used to know – the fearful, sniveling, worthless rat who sold his friends to Voldemort.

"Give me _one good reason_ why I shouldn't blast you to pieces right now," I hissed.

He hesitated, tensing up, and at that moment I was absolutely ready to become a murderer. But instead of begging for his life like the coward he was, his face slowly – inexplicably – twisted into a smile.

"Sirius, how could you?" His voice rang through the square, and several people stopped to stare. I lowered my wand, but kept it ready by my side.

"What are you–"

"Lily and James, Sirius! Our _friends_!" His tone rose in a distraught crescendo.

"You _killed–_"

He smirked, and I realized a second too late what was going to happen.

The explosion knocked me backwards, and through the cloud of debris I saw his figure shrink into Animagus form. I shouted after him, sending curses flying in his direction, until he scurried down the ladder. I blew that up, too.

But by that time, the Ministry had arrived. And I knew it was too damn late.

Bodies littered the square. The orange and yellow leaves were red with blood. And there I was, wand in hand, breathing feral, face crazed with fury.

This was really happening, wasn't it? I was _really_ going to be charged for murder?

_Seems that way_, my pureblood-voice said. It sounded faintly amused. I didn't care.

I laughed the whole way to Azkaban.


	4. Chocoballs

Due Cherubini

He was a Renaissance painting in a fancy museum: close enough to touch and yet decidedly unreal. He was constant, unchanging, like one of those Muggle photographs.

And she? She was a tourist, a zealous admirer, not around enough to fully see all of the imperfections in the canvas and acrylic. She could observe from afar, but a red velvet rope and glass casing would always be between them.

Oh, but she wasn't one to give up at the first sign of failure. She was also a dreamer – still faces and _Keep Out_ signs were adventures waiting to happen, people waiting to be changed. Someday, she would be that catalyst.

But for now, she waited. It would take time to melt down the cold façade of the ice king, who was now in the prime of his school career. She was patient.

:-:-:-:

"_We are gathered here today to witness and celebrate the union of Draco Lucius Malfoy and Astoria Ariadne Greengrass…"_

* * *

_A/N: Due Cherubini: a painting by Raphael depicting two little cherubs in the sky._


	5. Chocolate Frogs

Clymene

* * *

_Clymene: Titan of renown, fame, and infamy._

* * *

Salazar Slytherin studied the cold stone ceiling above him in a hazy listlessness, three long fingers drumming against the side of the bed. Beside him lay his wife, her face peaceful in sleep. He regarded her for a moment or two before returning to his thoughts.

He almost felt bad for her, in a way; she was so sweet and innocent, always looking for the best in people. It was a pitiable quality. No one got anywhere in life by being a nice little girl.

His lips curled into a satisfied smile as he thought of Rowena. She certainly was _not_ a nice girl. Intelligent, aloof, and strikingly pretty, she complemented him perfectly. He could feel it – she would be his rise to power, his ascension to fame. This school of hers (_ours_) was the key to his eventual throne, and all he had to do was play his part right. Though she was smart, she had her flaws: love would be her undoing.

Quietly, he slipped out of bed. And though he gently pulled the warm blanket back over the shoulders of his slumbering wife, he left without a second thought. He had a mistress to attend to… a future of pureblood dominance to secure.

(_He would soon find that even in a castle so large, secrets could not be kept for long._)

* * *

_A/N: Also written for Laux14's Mythology Competition._


	6. Drooble's Best Blowing Gum

x-oOoOoOo-x

_Potions office, 7:52 PM._

x-oOoOoOo-x

Severus Snape was having a pleasant day in all aspects of the word. He had sneered quite a bit, smirked some, and had even found an excuse to give Potter detention. Yes, all was going well.

He sat in his office, grading a stack of papers from a particularly hopeless class of brainless first years. Honestly, he was sure these were worse than usual; had they even _looked_ at their books before the start of term? Sighing, he refilled his inkstand with red and continued to slash away at the parchment, mindlessly correcting the same mistakes in paper after paper...

"Professor?"

He looked up, startled. When had the door opened?

"Yes?"

"I-I was just wondering when our essays would be graded, sir –"

Snape sighed audibly, resting his quill in its ornate stand. "In due time. Now, please –" He directed his eyes to the door, and the mouse of a student was out within seconds.

Slightly ruffled (but willing to overlook it; he didn't want to mar his nice day just yet), he resumed his work with a resigned grimace. As much as he hated to admit it, the essays _were_ taking him a rather long time…

"Sir?"

It was the same student, shuffling its feet nervously against the door frame.

"_What?_"

"I – I was wondering if –" He hesitated, eyes wide.

"Well, what is it?" he snapped impatiently. "Get on with it."

The idiot's voice shook with anticipation. "I-is it true, sir… that you wear pink –"

Snape stared at it for a moment before reacting. "Leave my –"

"But… but sir, I –"

"Get _out_, little girl, before I _make_ you –"

"Boy."

"What?" He realized, and his voice dripped sarcasm. "Terribly sorry, _boy_. Get out of my office."

"I'm twelve."

"What?"

"I'm twelve. I'm not _little_."

Snape nearly laughed out loud at the ridiculousness of the conversation he was having. Did this moron have _any_ concept of authority? He decided to play along, though – just this once.

"Well, I can't just call you 'boy,'" he said, adopting a smile very uncharacteristic of him. He had a feeling it looked something like a feral rabbit baring its teeth, but he couldn't be sure.

"You could say 'Dennis.'"

"I didn't know you were called Dennis."

"Well, you didn't bother to find out, did you?" The boy – yes, _Dennis_ – stuck out his lower lip petulantly.

Snape felt his demeanor begin to turn sour once again. "Now, _Dennis_, if you'll leave –" he began.

"Sir, there was another reason I was sent here. You're wanted on the seventh floor."

"By whom?"

"U-um… A portrait, sir."

A portrait? Merlin, he hoped it wasn't the Fat Lady calling after him again. He had experienced one too many inebriated come-ons at Christmas to visit the Gryffindor dormitories again anytime soon. (Then again, he dearly hoped he wouldn't be caught near there at all, drunk or not. He might catch arrogance.)

"…Sir, he did say to hurry –"

He? Snape stood up, delicately replacing the quill in its stand. "Where is this portrait?"

x-oOoOoOo-x

_Seventh-floor corridor, 7:59 PM._

x-oOoOoOo-x

"…Ni!"

_Ow!_ Snape clutched his side at the sudden sensation. It felt like he was being impaled with a broomstick.

Dennis turned down a hallway Snape recognized as the path to the North Tower. This was another corner of the castle he preferred not to visit; he had had enough experiences with prophecies to risk bringing another upon himself, legitimate or not. But –

"Ni!" Again he felt pain in his side, and gritted his teeth. Just _what_ was –

"HAVE YOU BROUGHT US A VISITOR?"

Dennis nodded quickly. "Yes, your knightness." He stepped out of the way, setting Snape's vision directly upon a painting of a short man upon an equally stubby horse. Behind him was a motley group of people (and others) he recognized as other paintings and portraits.

"Who the hell are you?" He hadn't meant for it to sound so crass – his style was more of a refined sarcasm – but he supposed sacrifices had to be made in the presence of idiots (and he could already tell that he was dealing with that sort).

The short man drew himself up proudly, and his pony whinnied shrilly. "WE ARE THE KNIGHTS WHO SAY… _NI_!" His cronies behind him echoed "Ni! Ni!"

The pain came again, but Snape stared straight at the knight, expression entirely nonplussed. He was good at that kind of stare, and he knew it. The knight faltered for a moment, but continued in his strangely high-pitched shout:

"WE ARE THE KEEPERS OF THE SACRED WORDS: NI! PENG! AND NEEE-WOM!"

The last two words sent his brain into a fit of dizziness, but he ignored it. "Excuse me?" he drawled. "Do you need something?"

"THE KNIGHTS WHO SAY NI DEMAND A SACRIFICE!"

Snape rolled his eyes. He recognized the little man now as Sir Cadogan, the moron who had attempted to safeguard Gryffindor Tower from Black a few years ago. His first impression remained correct. "Well, what is it you want?"

"WE WANT…" He paused dramatically. "A SHRUBBERY!" A pair of minstrels played a dissonant chord in the background.

"A what?"

Sir Cadogan lifted his arms, nearly toppling from his pony, and a chorus of "Ni!"s arose from his followers.

Snape doubled over; that had actually _hurt_. "Fine! I'll get you a shrub – a shrubbery," he croaked.

"YOU WILL FIND US A SHRUBBERY, OR YOU WILL NEVER PASS THROUGH THIS HALLWAY ALIVE!"

"Yes, _yes_, I will. Now, please –" Turning around and finding that Dennis had disappeared, Snape hobbled out of the corridor to a familiar gargoyle statue, which was scratching its head idly. "Drooble's Best Blowing Gum," he said dully, and it reluctantly moved aside to allow him passage to the headmaster's office, shooting him a glare as he passed. Bloody thing had never liked him, for whatever reason.

"…and that, my dear Minister, is how we know the earth to be banana-shaped."

Cornelius Fudge's engaged voice sounded through the heavy door. "This new learning amazes me, Dumbledore. Explain again how sheep's bladders may be employed to prevent earthquakes."

Unfortunately, Snape did not give him a chance to reply; he swung open the doors and strode majestically into the office. (He did love that word: majestic. It certainly did describe him at this moment.) "Headmaster, I would like to have a word with you about one of our paintings."

"Ah, Severus," Dumbledore said, peering at him good-naturedly over his spectacles. "Have a seat."

Snape looked around and saw no available chairs or couches of any sort.

"I'll be going, then, Albus," said Fudge, making for the door.

" Goodbye, Alice."

"Cornelius."

"Ah, yes. Goodbye, Cornelius." The Minister shut the door behind him. "Yes?"

Snape cleared his throat. "Yes. Sir Cadogan has appeared to –"

"Sir Cadogan!" Dumbledore exclaimed gaily. "Excellent fellow. Just met with him last week –"

"No, sir. Sir Cadogan is the mo – the knight occupying a painting in the North Tower, and he has absolutely _no_ respect for his superiors. He has threatened me with a curse if I do not bring him a… a _shrubbery_." He rolled his eyes with distaste.

"Did you say a shrubbery?"

"I did, sir." He looked on with mild horror as Dumbledore adopted a rather unnerving smile.

"Well, shrubberies are my trade! I am a shrubber. My name is Roger the Shrubber. I arrange, design, and sell shrubberies."

"…Are you drunk, sir?" He really hoped not. Dumbledore was eccentric enough without the influence of alcohol.

"No!" he snapped. "I just have a headache, okay?"

He nodded slowly. Perhaps he should keep quiet.

x-oOoOoOo-x

_Seventh-floor corridor, 8:36 PM._

x-oOoOoOo-x

Snape headed down the spiral staircase, a shrubbery hovering at the back of his head. He had gotten the blasted thing after a long lecture from Dumbledore (or Roger, as he now preferred to be called) about the importance of respecting his elders. Hmph. He didn't see at all how oil on canvas deserved his respect.

A clamor arose from the painting at his appearance.

Sir Cadogan caught sight of Snape and gave him his most intimidating leer. "HAVE YOU BROUGHT US A SHRUBBERY?"

"I have," Snape said grimly. There was an excited "Ni!" from one, but was it shushed by the others.

"SHH!" Sir Cadogan said. "WE ARE NOW… NO LONGER THE KNIGHTS WHO SAY NI."

Snape dearly hoped this didn't mean all his work was for naught. "Then what are you?"

"WE ARE NOW THE KNIGHTS WHO SAY 'ECKY-ECKY-ECKY-ECKY-PIKANG-ZOOP-BOING-GOODEM-ZOO-OWLI-ZHIV."

"Fantastic."

"NOW, GIVE US THE SHRUBBERY!"

"I would, O Knights Who 'Til Recently Said Ni," he said tensely, "but I have no way of –"

"LAY IT AT MY FEET."

"What?"

"AT MY FEET." He pointed at the ground below his tiny feet. Snape dropped it underneath the picture, and the knight nodded approvingly. "NOW, YOU MAY PASS."

Snape opened his mouth to say 'I don't want to pass; I just want to go back to my office and sleep,' but he didn't get the chance; a brightly-clad Sybill Trelawney swung down from a previously-unseen ladder and blocked his path.

"Oh no, not you," he mumbled. Unfortunately, she heard him.

"PROFESSOR SNAPE!" she trilled, and Snape sighed. He was really getting tired of the caps-lock speak.

"If you wouldn't mind, Sybill, I would like to –"

"YOU DON'T FRIGHTEN ME WITH YOUR SILLY KNEES-BENT, RUNNING-AROUND ADVANCING BEHAVIOR!"

It took him a while to remember what she was going on about, and he winced at the hazy memory. He would never go to another birthday celebration again.

"GO AND BOIL YOUR BOTTOM, YOU SON OF A SILLY PERSON!"

He didn't feel like telling her that yes, that feat was entirely possible to accomplish.

"I DON'T WANT TO TALK TO YOU NO MORE, YOU EMPTY-HEADED ANIMAL FOOD TROUGH-WIPER."

"Glad the feeling is mutual," he muttered.

"YOUR MOTHER WAS A HAMSTER –"

He took his chances and darted past her, narrowly avoiding a fist.

" –AND YOUR FATHER SMELT OF ELDERBERRIES!" she called over her shoulder as he sprinted down the hall.

x-oOoOoOo-x

_Potions office, 8:44 PM._

x-oOoOoOo-x

Wheezing, he slammed the door behind him and reinforced it with his wand. He would have _no more_ of that – that – foolishness. Madness. Folly. Stupidity. Synonyms be damned. He was just going to finish this batch of papers, have a nice bath, and go to bed early…

As luck would have it, he was interrupted within seconds.

"Hullo, Silas," said Professor Binns as he floated through the wall.

He forced a smile. "Good evening, Cuthbert."

"I was wondering if you would help me with a problem of mine," Binns said drearily, furrowing his silvery eyebrows.

"What kind of problem?" He was apprehensive already, having had enough of his own problems for one night.

"Yes, well…."

x-oOoOoOo-x

_Potions office, 9:28 PM._

x-oOoOoOo-x

"….Are you suggesting that coconuts migrate?"

"They could be carried."

"What, a swallow carrying a coconut?"

"It… it could grip it by the husk…"

"It's not a question of where he grips it! It's a simple question of weight ratios! A five-ounce bird can_not_ carry a one-pound coconut."

Damn Cuthbert Binns and his knowledge of physics. That was a Muggle occupation, anyway – wizards had no need for such trivial things as math and the like.

"In order to maintain air-speed velocity, a swallow needs to beat its wings forty-three times each second –"

"I must be going, Cuthbert," Snape said abruptly, standing up. "I have to meet with a student. See you later." He walked out of his office, only to recoil quickly: Professor McGonagall was standing directly outside.

"Severus –"

He held his hands up in defense. "Minerva, whatever you're about to say right now – _don't say it_. I have had _enough –_"

"But –"

"I don't want to hear it! I won't have any more shrubberies, or coconuts, or _elderberries –_"

"_Severus –"_

"Next thing I know, you'll be challenging me to a duel or spouting off French –"

"_Silencio!_"

He opened his mouth in protest, but settled for a glare given the absence of his speech.

"Now, Severus –" She placed a goblet firmly in his hand. "Madam Pomfrey was terribly worried this evening. Said you'd forgotten to take your meds."

Remembering again too late that he couldn't talk and succeeding in resembling a goldfish, Snape accepted the potion wordlessly.

"Do try and remember next time, alright, Severus?" She smiled kindly and walked off. He stared after her for a moment, mind processing her words, and angrily lifted the goblet to his lips.

Damn Minerva McGonagall and her superiority. Her father probably smelt of elderberries anyway.

x-oOoOoOo-x

_Sigh. I promised myself I wouldn't post these out of order, but… here it is._

_Also written for HedwigBlack's Weekly Challenge (Monty Python) and Budapest All Over Again's Painfully Bad Competition._


	7. Fudge Flies

Only for Him

I sat by the common room fire, trying – in vain, of course – to gather some warmth from its dying embers. It was December, one of the coldest I could remember, and I was silently cursing out the castle for overlooking the necessity of a magically-enforced heating system.

It's _Scotland_, for Merlin's sake! Hogwarts has been around for centuries. Eons. Surely by now they would have thought of –

"Nearly a thousand years, actually," an amused voice called from behind me.

I jumped. "Sirius – what are you – it's nearly two in the morning!" And had I really spoken aloud?

"I could ask you the same thing in slightly more coherent terms," he replied, pushing a couch up next to me.

I would have come up with a snarky reply to that, but my brain was a bit frazzled at the moment from studying earlier.

Er. If you consider hiding from my friends' prying eyes in the library with Potter studying.

"So what exactly _were_you and Jamesie doing in the library, hmm?" he asked, waggling his eyebrows.

I rolled my eyes. "_Studying_, Black. Exams are in two weeks, as I'm sure you've forgotten."

"Mmhmm," he said, giving me a kind of knowing look that should _not _be on his face. Whatever. I was too tired to care at the moment.

I yawned. "Well, I'll just be heading back to my dormitory, then –"

"Evans, wait." The smirk was gone from his face, replaced with a grim resignation I didn't know Sirius was capable of. He actually looked... mature.

I turned back around with a sigh, leaning on the edge of an armchair. "Yes?"

"You know I fucking hate your guts, right?"

I nodded. Of course I knew. He'd made that clear since first year, when he'd asked me out and promptly thrown a strawberry at my face upon rejection. "And?"

"And you know I won't hesitate to hex your pretty little face off if you hurt James any more than you have already, correct?"

Well, that one hurt a bit, especially since he was completely right. Poor James had been subject to the Wrath of Lily for six years. "Do go on."

"Well, if by some miracle you manage _not_ to fuck this all up –" thank you, Sirius, for having such faith in me – "I _might _think of giving you a second chance."

A second chance at what, exactly? Being supportive of his animosity against Severus? Uh-uh. Absolutely not.

"I mean a second chance at – at friendship."

Well, that was unexpected.

He ran a hand through his messy-yet-somehow-nice hair he and James seemed to share. "I mean, I think we would really get along if we didn't hate each other so much."

"Yes, that tends to complicate things."

He turned to look at me, his face reflecting nothing but sincerity for one unsullied moment. "So, will you think about it?"

I hesitated for a second, not sure whether he was serious or not. "I…"

"It's only for James, you know. I don't think he enjoys having his best mate and girlfriend constantly at odds." The solemnity was gone already, but there was a certain airiness about him that seemed rather forced.

I nodded. "Alright, Black, I accept."

"Good." He grinned. "So, about that Charms essay…"

I swatted him on the shoulder. "Just because I'm your friend now does _not_ mean you get to copy my homework, Sirius Black!" But I was laughing, too.

"Fine, fine." He stood up, brushing off his clothes. "But remember, Lily-flower – this is all for James. Got it?"

"Of course."

"Right, then." He walked to the dormitory stairs. "See you at breakfast."

As we both ascended to our respective dorms, it occurred to me what a contradictory person Sirius was. He claimed to disassociate himself with the rest of his crazy family, but he was still one of them: what he said and meant were two different things, and he damn well knew how to get people to do what he wanted. It was the reason girls liked him so much – he knew exactly how to make them fall in love with him.

I frowned. Was this what he was trying to do to me – pretend to be my friend for the sake of James, and completely cut me off when he wasn't around? That was what he'd claimed, anyway. _"This is all for James. Got it?"_

But he wouldn't tell me what he was going to do, or why – that wasn't his style. Was it possible… was it possible that Sirius Black actually wanted to be my friend?

For once in my life, I found myself hoping that he did.

* * *

_A/N: While I'm in the habit of posting things out of order, here's this. Also written for brazenser's Everything Goes Challenge with General Prompt 48: Secret._


	8. Jelly Slugs

Imperfection

Having been taught to appreciate non-magical life from an early age, Rose Weasley was no stranger to Muggle customs. She was fascinated by their quirky inventions and ingenious alternatives to magic; it almost seemed like they were, in a way, more advanced than her kind. Muggles had the technology to communicate instantly and fly across the world in a matter of hours; owls and broomsticks just couldn't compare.

She had tried to explain this to her best friend one evening in autumn, as they were sitting in their favorite little sixth-floor alcove. "Isn't it amazing, Scor," she had said, "that Muggles are able to function so well without magic?"

Scorpius Malfoy was born and raised with pureblood traditions, though most supremacy notions had already died out. Rose had never really understood them; she found their frames of reason too narrow and inescapable to be considered favorable. How could they call themselves pure if they were so ignorant of other lifestyles?

Needless to say, he hadn't understood.

It wasn't to say that Rose would trade in her lifestyle for one devoid of magic. She knew its importance, and couldn't imagine her life without it. But she couldn't help feeling that sometimes it was _too_ ideal, _too_ convenient – as if life was something capable of flawlessness.

This perfection was something magical musicians had managed to capture centuries before her time. Strings came equipped with self-tuning finger placement charms; brass instruments no longer needed valve oil. Sheet music didn't contain tempo markings, because the conductor's baton could control the entire orchestra in ways only dreamed of before. It was a wonder musicians were still needed to operate their instruments.

And this, _this_ was why Rose was so enamored of Muggle music: its imperfection. She loved the dissonance that suspended emotions for just a moment before resolving to a final, satisfying chord; she loved that subtle differences in vibrato could change a melody from pleasant to urgent within seconds. And most of all, she loved how difficult a task achieving musicianship was. The times she sat in a small classroom, practicing her (non-magical) flute were the times she became aware of the pure satisfaction of hearing herself master a piece after hours of hard work; no magically enhanced facsimile would ever compare to that kind of music.

She didn't play for Scorpius anymore. He had smiled the first time, of course, and showered her with compliments; to not do so would have been highly uncharacteristic of him. But Rose could tell that he did not appreciate imperfection the way that she did. He, like too many others, found perfection the ultimate goal. He couldn't see that it didn't exist.

She had no trouble finding redeeming qualities in him, ones that together surpassed this foible of his. She found refuge in his quiet voice and strong arms; it was difficult not to fall for him.

But Rose Weasley was a realistic person, and this separated her from her boyfriend's other admirers. She knew that Scorpius Malfoy was not perfect, and never would be.

She only hoped the rest of the world would eventually come to the same realization.

* * *

_A/N: Also for Avelin's Instrument Competition, viola level._

_I apologize in advance for any SPaG issues. It's 1:30 AM and I'm surprised I'm still halfway coherent._


	9. Ice Mice

Rock-A-Bye Baby

_Rock a bye baby, on the treetop_

Albus Dumbledore had always loved children. Their inquisitive minds, so unfettered by the stresses and prejudices of the world, held wonder toward things most people had already stored in their factory-processed minds as mundane. He wished that more of those people would understand simplicity.

_When the wind blows, the cradle will rock_

He observed the baby's peacefully-sleeping face fondly, one finger trapped in his tiny grip. A glance upwards told him he had arrived at his destination, and he faltered a bit inside as he thought of what the young child he held would become in this household. Was it really for the best?

_When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall_

The errant thought of taking Harry with him flitted through his mind for the twentieth time that evening, and he batted it away as quickly as it had arrived. It was best (_in the strangest sense of the word_, he noted) to leave him with family, no matter how different they might be from the Potters he knew. And this way, he wouldn't know his power before he was meant to.

_And down will come baby, cradle and all_

But as he left the quietly-breathing doorstep, he couldn't help but weigh the contrasting forces of love without magic and magic without love – and in the instant he Apparated away, he knew that one sacrifice would never amount to eleven years of care.

* * *

_A/N: Please let me know if you find something incongruous with canon, as I'm sure there must be mistakes._


	10. Sugar Quills

Perhaps

Dear Lily Evans,

Hey there.

Congratulations on becoming Head Girl. I can't say anyone's surprised – you're perfect for the job, really.

I'm not so sure about your partner in crime-solving, though. James Potter isn't exactly the ideal role model, is he? It just goes to show that Dumbledore really _is_ mental half the time. Who knows what goes on in that mind of his?

I just don't want to see him influence you, Lily, whether it's purposeful or not.

Sincerely,

A Concerned Friend

* * *

Dear "concerned friend,"

I know it's you, Severus. I don't need your advice about Potter.

-Lily

* * *

Dear Lily Evans,

And what if I'm not Severus? What would you say then?

-Friend

* * *

Dear "friend" (and yes, that is in quotation marks for a _reason_),

First of all, you are. That is clearly a badly-disguised version of your handwriting. And second, I would say that even if you aren't, you have no right to be making claims about James Potter. Merlin knows even _he's_ been a better friend than you have.

-Lily

* * *

Lily,

So he's your friend now, is he?

-Friend

* * *

Severus,

Yes, I suppose he is, now that you've left that position open.

-Lily

* * *

Lily,

…I don't know if I approve of that.

-Not Severus

* * *

You don't know if you approve? You _don't know_ if you _approve_? Have I ever given you _any_ reason to suggest that I need _your_ approval of the friends _I _choose to make? Have I ever _remotely suggested_ that I'm okay with your "approval" of my decisions? Don't you think that maybe _I_ disapprove of _your_ friends – your Mulciber and Rosier and whatever other Death Eater-wannabes you've collected? Have I ever told you to stop being friends with them? The answer is _no_, Snape, and I will _not_ have that from you.

If you lay a finger on James, I will _personally_ hex you to pieces.

* * *

Lily, I don't think you understand.

* * *

Lily?

* * *

I'm really not Snape. I swear. I'd make the Unbreakable Vow if that was possible through paper.

* * *

…Then who are you?

* * *

Meet me outside your common room in ten minutes.

* * *

_A still-indignant Lily waits impatiently outside the portrait hole, tapping her fingers against a gilded portrait frame. She hears no footsteps, but all of a sudden there's a tap on her shoulder and she whirls around to face –_

* * *

James.

You'd better not be letting all this go to your head, you know. Friend is different than boyfriend.

-Lily

* * *

Lily,

It's something, isn't it? Perhaps it's the beginning of something…

Kidding.

-James

* * *

James,

You'd better be.

-Lily

* * *

_A/N: Fun with line breaks._


	11. Pepper Imps

Somewhere In The Between

Marlene's a very skilled witch, particularly in defensive strategies. She might not have all her theory memorized, but she's quick on her feet. I hear she's planning to become an Auror… I think she'll be good at it. She doesn't shy away from danger, from what I've seen…

_-Remus Lupin. 1976. (ever the sweetheart, aren't you, Lupin…)_

Marlene? She… doesn't really talk to me much, I guess. She doesn't talk to me at all, actually… except for the time I spilled orange juice all down my front at breakfast. She laughed then. But I guess she's smart and stuff. She knows her hexes well.

_-Peter Pettigrew. 1976. (who?)_

Oh, yeah, Sirius's real good friends with her. Think they might've dated at some point, actually… She's friends with Evans, too – same dormitory. I'd say she's nice-looking for a blonde, yeah… no offense to her, but she can be kind of a slag sometimes. I guess Padfoot doesn't mind. She's not someone you want on your bad side, though – she's got a dozen ways up her sleeve to stick you to the ceiling or hex your toes off. Not that _we_ don't, mind you… but she's someone to watch out for.

_-James Potter. 1976. (yeah, offense taken, Potter, but don't tell me you don't like it.)_

Marlene McKinnon… Isn't she a Gryffindor? Blonde ringlets, loud voice, red lipstick? She's always reminded me of a fish, to be honest.

_-Mary Macdonald. 1976. (says the horse-faced one…)_

Marlene is _such_ a dear! Oh, she's friendly to mostly everyone, really, but I like to consider myself one of her better friends – me and her and Lily Evans, we've been friends since first year. Perhaps she can be a bit lazy at times – right slob, you know, always leaving _everything_ around our dormitory – and maybe she can get a bit angry sometimes, but she's got a good heart, really. Oh, and don't the men just _love_ her – she can be such a flirt sometimes… well, all the time, actually – lots of boys, she's got. She's strong, too – only seen that girl cry once, and she had every right to, you know… broke her arm in three places, poor thing! And only twelve years old at the time… That's not to say she's never sad, of course. I'm sure she is at times. She just kind of handles it better than most, y'know?

_-Emmeline Vance. 1976. (em, you're such a nice person. i don't understand you.)_

I'd say Marlene is one of my best friends, no matter how stubborn or disagreeable she can be. She's stuck with me for all this time, and I hope she continues, because I don't know if I could manage without her (or if she could keep herself out of trouble without me! Honestly, that girl does not know when to shut up sometimes). She's a bit too friendly with _them_ for any healthy level of sanity, though. How she can stand hanging around with Sirius Black is beyond me… She dated him, you know, and for a _long time_ by her standards. Too long, if you ask me – that meant I had to sit by them at meals, and let me tell you, neither of them is shy in the slightest about PDA… She's a half-blood, I think, and she's got three older brothers and a sister, so she's pretty tough. They've all graduated already, though. Anyways, yeah, Marlene is a great person. She may not be the best at being sensitive, or turning in homework on time, or _doing_ her homework… but I wouldn't trade her for the world.

_-Lily Evans. 1976. (and you, lils.)_

Marlene McKinnon, hm? Well… let's just say we made a splash in the prefects' bathroom.

Kidding. Neither of us is good enough to be a prefect, and it's not like Moony would ever give me the password. Hah. Maybe I should ask him, just to see his reaction.

…Okay, okay. Marlene. Nice body on that one. She's real polite to people when she wants to be, but believe me, she's not afraid to speak her mind (or give you a good slap, if she feels like you deserve it). Excellent snog, too. Oh, and I'd say she's pretty smart – not quite all the way to Remus-smart, but more James-smart when he pays attention.

Prongs said that, did he? Yeah, I guess we've become pretty good friends. She probably knows me the best out of anyone besides James and Remus, now that I think about it… a few drunken confessions here and there, and suddenly we know a bunch about each other. Funny how that works sometimes.

_-Sirius Black. 1976. (password's beethoven… i think abbott's still making them up. midnight tonight?)_

* * *

It's a real pity, what they've done. Her whole family, gone overnight… I hope their deaths will not be in vain.

_-Remus Lupin. 1981. (twenty-one years old and writing like a professional… times haven't changed.)_

She was a brave person… I remember once, back in third or fourth year, when a couple of us had found a decent-sized acromantula in Hogsmeade, but after it nearly bit someone and started chasing us, we ran. And Marlene McKinnon just happened to show up then and save our arses – just pulled out her wand and threw a Stunner at it, like none of us were smart enough to think of. She was a pretty great person, and I'm really sorry to hear about what happened.

_-James Potter. 1981. (getting sentimental, are we, potter? has lily finally gotten to you?)_

Marlene McKinnon will always be remembered in our hearts.

_-Mary Macdonald. 1981. (apology not accepted.)_

I-I can't believe it… Marlene, after all this time… _[muffled sobs]_ She fought, I know she did. Marlene fought against all those D-Death Eaters with all of her heart… n-not like me, oh, I know, not like timid little me in the Charms corridor against Mulciber… Marlene, you fought, right? You resisted… you did…

_-Emmeline Vance. 1981. (calm down, ems. you'll get on just fine without me.)_

She's… she's really gone. And I can't believe it. I can't believe that just yesterday, she was absolutely full of life; we were talking about our plans for after all this passes over, and… and now she won't get to fulfill any of that, because she's _dead_. I won't ever get to see her again, or her amazing family… She's still alive in my mind, you know, still the same, wonderful Marlene… the poor angel. I hope she didn't suffer.

_-Lily Potter. 1981. (you too, lils.)_

Let me tell you something about Marlene McKinnon.

She was not a great person. She wasn't even always a good person. She was just an average human being that lived at the wrong time and in the wrong place. And now she's gone.

Okay, but most of us knew that already. We all lived with her for seven years. We know she had her friends, and she definitely had her enemies. But here we are, telling each other how beautiful and how good she was – and just because she's dead. Her personality didn't change in the last seconds of her life, and if it did, none of us were there to see it. She was Marlene her whole life.

And if you knew that, too, then why the hell are we acting like she wasn't? Why do people find the need to glorify the dead and turn them into something they're not? I don't know about you, but I want to be remembered as exactly who I am, no matter if I become a serial killer or an Auror.

…I may have loved her at one point. I don't know. I'm not sure anymore, because her image is already starting to twist itself in my mind. I guess it's only human, then, because I'm resisting it the hardest and the lines between fact and fantasy are already blurring.

Merlin, I'm starting to sound like some sort of sap. C'mon, I'm leaving.

_-Sirius Black. 1981. (aww, look, he does care. it's just a bit too late.)_

_[Peter Pettigrew was not available for comment.]_

_A/N: For __**Budapest All Over Again**__ in the __**Yuletide Fic Exchange**__. I hope you had/have a fantastic holiday! :)_

_Gosh, I'm feeling really iffy about the quality of this, but I've redone it about 29384798 times so far and procrastinated until the last minute… DX Extensive editing will probably take place sometime soon. Also, the "1981" takes place before the death of the Potters and Sirius's imprisonment, obviously._

_Happy New Years' Eve, everyone!_

_~Ebaz_

_P.S. The title is from Streetlight Manifesto's song "Somewhere In The Between," which sparked this fic with the line "we all just idolize the dead." Go listen to it; it's pretty awesome :D_


	12. Treacle Fudge

Toujours Pur

When you look at the Black family tree, you see the greats first – the ancestors, who started traditions and fathered generations upon generations of excellent blood.

Glance a little farther down and you'll see other worthy blood branching off here and there; the Rosiers, the Malfoys, the Burkes, and occasionally a Potter or two are interspersed among the celestial given names of which the family is so fond. Here are the names remembered in history textbooks and ancient blood-purity rosters.

If you can tear your eyes away from them, focus on the bottom. Here is what I know: a generation full of Dark devotees, pureblood enthusiasts, and the newest Lord's minions.

Nothing has changed much, has it?

Perhaps that's true. But if you look a bit closer, you'll see a few tiny black spots, no bigger than a Knut each. You can almost see Aunty Walburga scorching each little face off the family she's worked so hard to keep pure.

In the bottom corner is my dear sister Bellatrix, the perfect, witty daughter any pureblood would love to have. Next to her is fair Narcissa, blonde ringlets framing her face like the angel she appears to be. And between them?

That bit of charred tapestry had a name at one point. It was Andromeda Black, and she was once very happy to possess that surname.

Then, reality caught up with her. Somehow, somewhere, she realized that perhaps the quality of blood spilled wasn't as important as the quantity. She discovered what it meant to live a happy life, not a haughty one. She found love in the form of the lowest quality of blood fathomable to her "family."

She learned. She loved. She was removed. It's as simple as that.

Andromeda Black is no more; that girl died with the smoldering remains of her name on the tapestry. I am Andromeda Tonks, and I do not belong with the Black family. I am no longer your _toujours pur_, your haughty superiority and pitiable concurrence with ancient beliefs. I am my own entity.

You may be _always pure_, but the burns will remain.

* * *

_A/N: Also written for _only breath_'s _Musical Terms Challenge_ with prompt _bocca chiusa _and_ Laux14_'s _As Strong As We Are United Competition_ using prompt _star.

_Ebaz_


	13. Cockroach Clusters

Dangerously Alone

Rowena Ravenclaw sat facing the fire, arms crossed over a noticeable bump in her stomach. Her hair hung around her face in strands, wet from the pouring rain outside the curtained window. She stared into the fire, mind whirling, and almost didn't hear the door open gently.

Almost.

"Slytherin," she said quietly. She couldn't bring her lips to form his first name, the one she had so recently spoken with tenderness.

He didn't miss the iciness in her voice, but chose to ignore it. "Rowena." He strode across the room to sit beside her.

_I am a Ravenclaw. I can keep calm._ "Have you heard?" she said dully, crossing one damp leg over the other.

Of course he had, but he wasn't about to reveal it. "Heard what, dear?" he asked, arranging his face into a flawless façade of innocence.

"She knows." Rowena's voice dropped in volume and rose in pitch, her eyes wide and scared. "She knows, and I didn't tell her, so it must have been –"

"Me?" he supplied. His face narrowed for a split second, but switched to something resembling mirth. "Think about it, dear. Why would _I_ tell my wife I had cheated?"

For once in her life, she was at a loss for words. She couldn't think of any other possible ways the information had been leaked; they had always been discreet about their little secret…

A voice echoed in her head: _When magic is near, secrets do not exist._

"And on top of that," he continued, concealing a sickening amount of amusement, "it's hardly my fault. A man can only resist so much when a woman forces herself upon him…"

"I did _not_ force myself upon you!" she shouted, rising to her feet, but Salazar was across the room in half a second, dangerously close and frighteningly tall. She whimpered as his piercing eyes bore into her own.

"It's alright," he said softly, and Rowena almost caught a glimpse of the young boy she had known as a child, innocent and calming – but his features hardened almost immediately. "It's alright. We've both gotten what we wanted."

He left her standing there, frozen in shock, drowning in thought, choking back pleas… and so, so dangerously alone.

(_It is said that Rowena Ravenclaw died of a broken heart._)

* * *

_A/N: Sequel to Chocolate Frogs. Also written for the As Strong as We Are United Competition using prompt_ loss_ and for the Crayola/Bertie Bott's Challenge for baby powder__._


	14. Cauldron Cakes

I Don't Care

"HARRY JAMES POTTER–"

He dodged a well-aimed hex, guiding his broom to the left.

"I AM _SO_ GOING TO KILL YOU!"

A drenched and spluttering Ginny Weasley stood on the grass below him, wand pointed defiantly upwards. Harry grinned and circled over her head.

"That threat's not much use if you're all the way down there, is it?" He yelped as a second beam of light grazed his hair. "Or maybe it is."

"You don't want to make me chase you," she warned, allowing a hint of a grin to soften her features.

"Don't I?" He swooped down to the ground, nearly reaching her eye level. "Or don't you? Because last time that happened, you ended up with a bucket of water over your hea–"

"_Accio broom_!" Harry tried to move away at first, prepared for a chase, but instead found himself zooming towards the ground tail-first. He tried the emergency brake, but it had little effect as he hurtled towards the ground –

- and was stopped at the last second by a casually-cast Cushioning Charm, which slowly lowered him to the ground on his stomach.

"Merlin, Ginny," he panted, straightening himself up and checking his Firebolt for damage. "I suppose that was revenge?"

"That it was," she said matter-of-factly.

"Could've killed me, you know."

"Hardly. You weren't flying that high. Besides, you've been in enough near-death situations already – I thought you'd have figured out what to do by now." She grinned and leaned against the wall of the shed. Her hair fell dark around her shoulders in the waning moonlight, dripping water onto the grass below.

"Ginny…"

"Hm?"

"You're crazy, you know that?"

"So I've been told." She wrapped a piece of that lovely hair around her fingertip and unwound it again.

"Ginny?"

"Yes?"

He didn't care if it was blunt; he wasn't in the mood for circumlocution. "Can I kiss you?"

She smiled. "A minute ago I was out for your blood, and now you want to snog me?"

"Don't care," he breathed, and wrapped his arms around her waist as she leaned upward to put her lips to his. Cold lips met warm ones; hands enmeshed themselves in hair; and bodies stayed twined together until the morning hours.

Harry had to admit it – despite the multiple death threats and near escapes, the day had actually turned out pretty nice.

_A/N: Also written for the 'As Strong As We Are United' Competition using prompt_ dark[ness]_._

_Ebaz_


	15. Fizzing Whizbees

Pictures of Memories – Memories of Pictures

It was Dudley's seventh birthday, and he could hardly be more excited. He'd gotten his very own computerized robot, television set, PlayStation, and pet parrot, among other things. And the biggest surprise of all (he had discovered all of his other presents before, of course) was the set of amusement park tickets that had just arrived in his mother's fingers! He knew they were for the amusement park because of the colorful balloons printed on them. There were also a couple of long words, but he couldn't be bothered to figure those out now.

"...and a complementary burger at the concession stand," his mother was saying. Burger? He liked those. Piers Polkiss's mom made them sometimes.

"...about him?" His dad's finger pointed across the table to his puny cousin, who was quietly observing the mound of Dudley's presents stacked above his head. Dudley didn't like that. They were /his/, not Harry's.

"...with Yvonne," said his mum airily. As far as Dudley remembered, Yvonne was the short lady who sometimes visited on holidays. She had a weird voice and didn't like him. He didn't like her, either.

"Can we go, Mum?" he complained, suddenly tired of sitting down. "I want to go on the rides."

"Yes, Diddykins, we'll be leaving soon." Her eyes crinkled, and she might have been smiling (he couldn't tell over the mountain of gifts).

xXxXx

They finally got into the car. Dudley was slightly angry about not getting to sit in the passenger seat ("But Mum, I'm tall enough already!"), and settled for prodding Harry's shoulder rather viciously whenever he felt like it. This was quite calming; he was almost sad when his punching bag had to leave.

Harry shared no such sentiment. He practically leapt out of the car when his aunt unlocked the doors, and was happy to wait patiently on the front porch as Petunia and Yvonne gabbled about fashion and tea. At a whine from Dudley, Petunia had to hurry back, and Yvonne took notice of Harry for the first time.

"'Lo," she said kindly, pushing the door open for him. He entered the tiny house, which was gaudily decorated in mauve tones. Photographs lined the walls and lay in piles on top of desks and other furniture. Harry settled down on a seat unoccupied by these and shrugged his shoulders, waiting for some sort of instruction.

Yvonne had never been married; she really hadn't the faintest idea how to deal with children, much less this one (who, Petunia had warned her, was somewhat addled in the brain). She took a seat next to him and crossed her legs delicately.

"So, Harry," she said, testing out his name for the first time, "what do you want to do?"

He gave an indifferent sort of shrug. "Dunno." It didn't seem like there was much to do in a house like this.

"Well, what do you usually do at a sitter's house?"

He thought of Mrs. Figg's house rather unfondly. "Er, look at pictures of cats and things…"

Yvonne brightened. "I don't know about cats, but I certainly have a lot of pictures." She began rummaging through the nearest pile.

Harry grimaced. He hadn't meant that he _liked_ poring over volumes of Mr. Snuggles and Miss Tiddlydums. But he couldn't exactly refuse, seeing as Yvonne had already unearthed a hefty album and was eagerly pawing through it.

"This was your aunt and I when we were younger," she said fondly, pointing to a picture of the youthful and more heavily made-up women. Harry almost didn't recognize Aunt Petunia, but her distinctive neck gave it away. "And this was my old place in London… shame we moved away…"

"London's nice," said Harry unhelpfully. He'd never actually been, of course, but it sounded pleasant enough from what he'd heard in school or on the news.

"It was nice where I lived," Yvonne recalled. "Though I've heard it's gone to the dogs since I've last visited… Bit grimmer than it was before." She laughed a bit, though Harry didn't know why.

She frowned as she continued to flip through the album's yellowing pages. Where were the rest of the pictures of her childhood home? She hadn't appreciated them then, but now she yearned to see those narrow hallways and tall ceilings that she used to know so well.

Harry yawned and scrutinized the sewn-in patterns on the edge of his chair as Yvonne reached for another album, examining each page for a glimpse of her house. None found, she sighed and reached for the next one, which gathered the same results.

Noticing that Harry looked bored, she offered him a juice box or cup of tea. He accepted the tea, and sipped it quietly as Yvonne talked about her life through the sepia-colored pictures and asked him questions to which he really didn't have answers. He was polite, though, and stayed quiet most of the time.

The hours passed and Petunia arrived to pick up Harry. Yvonne still had a peculiar feeling, though. Why didn't she own any pictures of her house? She was positive that some did exist – she was born into a family of photographers, and it wasn't often that some aspect of her life was not neatly catalogued in pictures. Where had they all gone?

xXxXx

Yvonne had a very strange dream that night.

Two young boys were sitting in a rigid-looking courtyard. It was dusk, and the only light available came from the tall streetlamps on either side of them. They spoke in hushed whispers.

"Try and make it green!" whispered the smaller one, his face eager and bright in the yellow light.

The older one grinned. "Like this?" He closed his eyes in concentration, and – just for a second – the light flickered a dark green.

"You've _got_ to teach me that!" the other breathed. When she looked closely, the resemblance between the two was recognizable. Yvonne was sure they were brothers.

Yes, Yvonne was there. High above them, her shadow was outlined in a third-floor window. She could only have been about seven.

The Yvonne who was dreaming the scene could see them all. She floated above it, invisible to its participants. It wasn't odd in the slightest for her; she watched with interest.

The lamp glowed bright yellow before going out with a sputter, and the youngest brother laughed gleefully. "I did that! Did you see? I did it!"

"Nice job," congratulated the other. They continued to talk and play in the darkness; Yvonne, having no light to see by, turned away from her window as the dream transitioned rather abruptly.

They were no longer shrouded in blackness. Instead, the sky was a bright gray and the courtyard's iron statues gleamed.

The boys were there, and this time, they showed the first signs of adolescence. The older one carried trunks in each hand, struggling under their weight. His brother walked alongside him as they made their way to the gate; a tall man and portly woman followed.

That was odd. Yvonne had never seen these parents of theirs before. She observed them curiously as they spoke little to their sons, who seemed to be eagerly awaiting something.

"Yvonne," called her mother from the bottom of the stairs, "come and eat your lunch! It's getting cold."

"One minute, Mum," she called. Lunch probably wasn't anything that could get cold, anyways; her parents usually didn't have the time or the skill to make anything more substantial than a sandwich, so she decided to stay and watch a bit longer – but when she turned back to the window, they were gone.

xXxXx

Yvonne was outside now. Her hands were clenched around the tassels of her coat, knuckles red against the biting wind. The boys were standing in the small space between houses today, but this time they weren't friendly - they stood across from each other, hands clenched into fists.

"You can't just run off like that!" yelled one. She was starting to have trouble telling them apart; they were both aging quite nicely. Their features were similar, but they carried themselves much differently: while one had a careless sort of air, the other exuded poise and propriety. She couldn't decide which one she liked better.

"Yeah, well, now I don't have a choice." This voice was resigned, bitter.

"Look, I'll talk Mum into taking you back -" the other was saying, but his words fell on tired ears.

"She won't have me back. And even if she did, what makes you think I'd _want_ to come back?" he spat, his expression hardening.

"She _will_-"

"I'm not going to live in a family of -"

His exclamation was obscured by a loud crack from somewhere inside the house, and both of the boys flinched. Without a word, both of them disappeared, and Yvonne could've sworn they'd teleported on the spot.

Her shoulders sagged. She'd wanted to talk to them today.

See, Yvonne had been watching these boys for too long, and she was starting to feel a bit... invasive. She wasn't exactly an outgoing person, but neither of her friends-through-the-window seemed particularly shy, and she was sure she could make friends with them if she tried.

It came as a disappointment, then, when only one of the boys bothered to show his face outside anymore. The other, she assumed, had "run off" like she had heard a couple of months ago. She could tell them apart in absence. The older boy - the one who'd left - had a more prominently-defined face, with high cheekbones and a careless smile; the elegance and grace belonged to the younger one - the one she was currently approaching from the east side of the courtyard.

He sat on the old metal bench with his back to her, tapping his foot against the ground in boredom. Despite her quiet footsteps, though, he turned around sharply when she was about ten feet away.

"Er, hello," she began cautiously, giving a half-wave as he scrutinized her from the bench.

_He looks tired_, she noticed. There were bags underneath his eyes and he was clutching his forearm in pain.

"I was, um, wondering if you lived around here. I always see you out here, but I don't know if you..." She mentally berated herself for rambling. Why did she have to do that so often?

"Yeah." He forced a smile. "I live at number... seven."

"Oh, really?" She nodded. "I'm at nine."

That was a lie. _She_ lived at seven.

Not having anything much to say but small talk, Yvonne left soon, feeling more confused than ever. Apparently he lived at number seven (which was a lie), went to a private school called Glenford (which she'd never heard of), and had an older brother in the navy (which she could believe, after that conversation she'd overheard a while ago). She'd come hoping to make a friend, and left feeling more estranged than before.

She'd forgotten to get his name, too. That was a shame.

At home that night, as she fought her way up the cluttered stairs, she spotted her old camera lying just outside her door. She sighed and lightly kicked it aside, wondering when her parents would ever stop trying to push their photography on her. It wasn't that she didn't like it; it was more the fact that they wanted her to be just like them that irked her. She'd rather not spend her life surrounded by pictures of people instead of the real thing.

Even as she thought that, though, an idea occurred to her: she should take a picture of these mysterious boys, in case they disappeared for good one day. It sounded a bit silly in her mind, but she couldn't shake the idea that this was what she should do – and besides, Petunia was getting curious about these supposed neighbors of hers that she always talked about. A picture would definitely do. So she picked up her dusty polaroid camera and placed it at her bedside, hoping it would be put to good use.

The next day, she gathered up her camera and materials (including a special album she'd filled with her favorite pictures of her and her siblings around the house), and headed outside to the little spot between eleven and thirteen she had seen them visit every so often. She waited around for a bit, humming to herself, tapping her foot against the ground, and only starting to feel uneasy when an hour or two had passed. She felt stupid for thinking they would actually show up just because she had decided to wait then. What had she been thinking? Morosely, she packed up her items and prepared to leave.

_Oh, just a few more minutes_, a little voice in the back of her head urged her. _What if they come just after you've left? You don't want to quit now, only to find they went anyways…_

She just couldn't say no to that voice.

The sky was beginning to turn a rosy red, and there were still no signs of either dark-haired boy. Yvonne closed her eyes and leaned against number eleven, feeling slightly sleepy.

Suddenly, her eyes flew open. She could hear them.

She looked around quickly, but they were nowhere in sight. Their voices were getting louder; they were somewhere very close by –

_WHAM_!

A door was flung open out of thin air, and it nearly caught Yvonne's shoulder. The two boys hurried out of it, but Yvonne wasn't watching them – she was more interested in what was behind them.

In between numbers thirteen and eleven, space seemed to be enlarging. A house was _materializing out of thin air_. It squeezed itself between the two, and the neighboring residents didn't seem to be perturbed at all. Number twelve, Grimmauld Place had brought itself into existence.

"Shit," the oldest one swore loudly. "We've gone and gotten ourselves noticed."

Yvonne hoped he wasn't talking to her, but the boys had definitely noticed her. They took long strides towards her, and she clutched her camera to her chest out of fear.

"Relax, honey," drawled the older one. His hair was longer and shaggier than the last time she'd seen him, and his gray eyes were narrowed in dislike. "We're not going to hurt you." He nodded toward his brother. "Get the camera. She could have pictures."

Yvonne was sure she'd imagined the look of pity in his eyes as he took her album and camera and placed them on the floor. She watched as he retrieved a nicely-carved wooden stick from his pocket and pointed it at the pile.

The older one's voice made her flinch and look back up. "Do you want to do the honors?" Her gaze shifted again, and her camera was no longer on the ground – it had vanished completely.

The younger one, the one she had wanted to know so badly, approached her cautiously. "This shouldn't hurt a bit," he said, and pointed the stick at her.

"W-what're you –"

"Sorry," he breathed. Light flashed in her face and her eyes opened wide in fright.

"_Obliviate_."

xXxXx

The real Yvonne woke up with a start, her heart beating wildly under her tartan nightgown. She must've had a nightmare or something, but she couldn't remember it for the life of her. Calming down, she poured herself a glass of water and began to rifle through her closet for the day's clothes.

xXxXx

Somewhere and sometime far away, two boys propped up the unconscious form of a teenage girl against a brick wall. The older one patted his brother on the back.

"Nice job, Regulus," he said. "Impressive spell. Did Voldemort teach you that one?"

"Shut it," Regulus growled, and nearly sent him a hex before thinking better of it. They'd already gotten caught once today; there was no sense in breaking the law even more.

So he turned back to the girl instead. Her face was still contorted in terror, but by her breathing, she could've been sleeping; it was definitely an odd combination. He chuckled and observed her; her short height and tight brunette curls made her look like a tiny cherub against the backdrop of red brick.

"Good night," he said quietly, once he was sure his brother was well out of earshot. "Sorry about that. Just the rules, you know – can't have Muggles knowing everything about us, can we? I know you thought something was off with me yesterday; you looked so confused. It was actually sort of funny." He paused and cleared his throat. "I might've actually noticed you if you weren't a Muggle, so… congratulations, I guess."

There was no answer. Of course there wasn't. He hadn't really expected one.

"You should keep on taking pictures, alright?"

And with that, he slipped back inside, wondering what would become of the small girl on the wall.

xXxXx

(They found her there an hour or so later, and she couldn't tell them anything useful at all. She couldn't remember a thing from the past year. But when she was deemed healthy enough to go back to her home at number seven, the first things she saw were the collections of pictures that used to annoy her so – and for some strange reason, she couldn't stop adding to them.

It was written off as a side effect of amnesia, but her parents weren't complaining.)

xXxXx

_A/N: Written using prompts **glow** and **transition**. This is unrevised, and I'm aware Regulus is OOC. Changes will be made sometime in the near future. Also written for the Seven Slytherins Competition._

_Ebaz_


	16. Pumpkin Pastries

Definitely Old Enough

"For Merlin's sake, _why_ can't you just _fly_?"

Ginny Weasley sat cross-legged on the floor in front of a tiny, old-fashioned radio, and her niece had never seen her look that angry at an inanimate object. She was glaring at it with such intensity that Rose thought it might explode into flames.

"Ugh," she muttered, directing her gaze to her bulging stomach instead. "HARRY, WHERE ARE YOU?" she yelled up the stairs.

Rose's uncle poked his head around the door. "I'm right here," he said quietly. "What is it this time?"

Ginny groaned. "Cornfoot got himself hexed and he can't play the next game. They want me to fly for him."

Harry looked alarmed. "But you can't! You're –" He pointed at her stomach.

"That's my cousin," Rose said proudly. Her mommy had told her that she was going to have a new cousin in a few months, and she was very excited (although she still wasn't sure why Auntie Ginny was keeping him in her belly).

Ginny flinched. "Yes, sweetie, it's your cousin," she said tiredly. "Why don't you go play with Al and James?"

Rose shrugged. She didn't really want to – they were always playing boy games with each other, and sometimes she wasn't allowed – but she flounced off anyways to join her cousins.

She wondered, though, why Auntie Ginny couldn't fly. From what she'd heard from her parents, Auntie Ginny was _amazing_ at flying. She was on a professional team and everything! Rose couldn't understand why she just couldn't do it all of a sudden.

"Maybe it's because of my new cousin!" she said out loud, forgetting that thoughts were best for keeping in her head. James gave her a strange look, but he went back to playing mini-Quidditch with his brother.

_Yes_, Rose thought, _that's definitely it_. _She can't fly because her stomach is too big_! And the little girl felt guilty, because it was _her_ cousin that Auntie Ginny had to carry around, and it wasn't fair that she had to miss out on flying because of it. Motivated by the overwhelming feeling that she had done her aunt a disservice, Rose ambled back downstairs and searched for her aunt and cousin.

She found her in the same spot as before, holding the radio in her lap as Quidditch commentary emanated from its tiny speakers. Uncle Harry was sitting next to her.

"Auntie Ginny?" Rose said quietly.

Her aunt flinched a bit. "Oh, hi, Rosie," she said. "Are James and Al not fun enough for you?"

She shook her head and went to sit on her aunt's other side. "I just heard you saying that you couldn't fly any more, and I wanted to help you." She fidgeted with the ends of her sleeves.

Ginny smiled a bit. "How're you going to help me?" she asked.

Rose looked up eagerly. "I can babysit my new cousin while you fly," she said enthusiastically. "You can put him in my belly instead, and then he won't bother you while you play!"

Uncle Harry laughed out loud, and she looked at him, confused. Had she said something wrong?

"Oh, honey," began Ginny, grinning widely, "it doesn't work like that. I've got to keep your cousin with me until he's born."

"No, I could take really good care of him!" she promised. "I could eat more food to feed him and everything…"

Both of the adults in the room were laughing now, and Rose was beginning to feel indignant. She _was_ old enough to take care of a baby! She took care of her dolls all the time, and they all thought she was a great mommy.

"Fine," she said stubbornly. "I won't help you." She stomped away, rather hurt that her offers had been rejected.

"Sorry, Rosie!" Ginny called after her, still giggling.

"Well, that was – unexpected." Harry shook his head fondly. "Wait 'til we tell Hermione and Ron…"


	17. Licorice Wands

Different

Lily Luna Potter was different, and she knew it well.

First of all, she was a Slytherin. This wouldn't mean too much except for the fact that she was the _only_ snake in her precious family of lions, and this alone earned her much ridicule. She took it lightly, of course – perhaps she wasn't courageous enough to belong with the rest of her family, but at least she was cunning. It didn't matter too much to her.

Secondly… well, a lot of the time, she didn't share the general joviality of the rest of her family, either. As far back as she could remember, her childhood had been filled with an almost obsessive focus on fun and happiness. She didn't see why, either – she knew perfectly well what had happened in the war, and that was enough to make anyone want to forget everything and everything good that had ever happened to them. But since her parents didn't, sometimes she felt it was her duty to restore the balance of emotion to the cheerful home.

Neither of those facts mattered at all, though, in face of the last and most crucial secret she had. She stayed awake thinking about it sometimes, about how _wrong_ it was – she was sixteen years _old_ and she was supposed to be thinking about _boys_ and instead she was sneaking off to Hogsmeade in the middle of the _night_ to meet –

Her friends would laugh at her if she told them. They might even be disgusted with her. Both, probably. She didn't want to chance that, so she resorted to lies and excuses whenever she could. She could never tell them.

So there she sat, at the edge of the frozen-over pond on the outskirts of the forbidden Forest, finally alone with that which she most desired. Sneaking a glance around once more to make sure they were alone, she turned around and smiled slightly.

"I love you," she whispered, quietly, and then blushed slightly, feeling silly. Shaking her head, she leaned forward. She parted her mouth slightly and lifted the Cockroach Cluster to her mouth, enjoying each savory crunch as much as possible.

* * *

_A/N: please don't ask what this is because not even I know_

_Used prompts home, lie, different, childhood, courage, obsession, and pond._


	18. Peppermint Toads

Hate

Oh, how he would love for Harry Potter to be anything less than a perfect human being.

Everyone knew the face and the name, of course. The Boy Who Lived was practically the icon of the century. People idolized him to no end without knowing more about him than whatever the Daily Prophet spouted out – and then, when _that_ turned on him, many still sympathized and defended him.

When he first arrived at Hogwarts, Zacharias had expected him to be, well, sort of a pompous prat – who wouldn't be, with a reputation like his and a troubled past to play up? – but Harry Potter was nothing of the sort. He was humble, average at school, and truly generous.

Zacharias hated him.

It would be so _simple_ to justify his hatred if the boy was arrogant, like he'd hoped. But no, Potter was so damn _likable_ that his only flaw seemed to be his humanity, which was a pretty rubbish kind of flaw to have.

Was it jealousy? Maybe. Zacharias had never really interacted with the boy before his oh-so-great _Dumbledore's Army_ meetings, where he (admittedly) did learn a lot about defense, but it was so easy to like this humble teacher that he did just the opposite.

Hate, hate, hate. That was the only emotion he felt towards the Boy Who Lived.

(_But wasn't it the only emotion he'd ever felt?_)

* * *

_A/N: This is finally complete! Now, I'm aware that a LOT of these need revision, and I apologize for that. But I don't think I'm allowed to do that 'til after the competition's over, so... I apologize for that, too. But thanks for sticking with me! :)_

_Ebaz_


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